


I’ll Be For You A Shelter From the Storm

by RiatheMai



Series: A Wee Bit More Than a Drabble [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awesome Dean, BigBrotherDean, Children Left Alone, Gen, John Loves His Boys, Pillow & Blanket Forts, ScaredSammy, Thunderstorms, ToddlerSam, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:01:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7512727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiatheMai/pseuds/RiatheMai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected and violent thunderstorm hits while their dad is away and it's up to Dean to comfort his terrified little brother until the storm blows over or their dad comes back. Pre-series Wee!chester.  Sammy is 3 and Dean is 7.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’ll Be For You A Shelter From the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Upon request, this is another cross-post from my fanfiction dot net account. It comes from a series of short Wee!Chester stories inspired by the 100 Word weekly drabble challenge. Sometimes an idea needed more than just 100 words, so I created A Wee Bit More Than A Drabble and posted each story as a chapter. This site lets us create collections, so if y'all like this, I'll bring over some more.

After the fourth roof-rattling, wall-shaking crack of thunder Sammy had had enough.

Dean really couldn't blame the three-year-old. The span between the flashes of lightning and the rumbles of thunder was so close he couldn't squeeze a _‘one Mississippi_ ’ between them. His ears were still ringing from the last percussive bang, so loud above their heads he'd grabbed Sammy off the bed and onto the floor out of pure reaction.

It really was no wonder the kid was bawling his eyes out.   

"It's okay, Sammy," he said into the tussled head tucked so tightly under his chin he had to pull back to swallow. He wasn't entirely sure he believed that, but what else was he supposed to say? He needed Sammy to _stop_ crying, after all.

Truth was, he was more than just a little freaked out. The first crash of thunder had startled them both, coming out of nowhere, loud and sudden. He'd run straight to the window and peered out through the small gap between the drawn curtains expecting to see a car accident or something equally as destructive to account for the noise. It had been raining for quite a while. Surely the roads were slippery. 

All he'd seen, though, was an empty stretch of road beyond the empty parking lot... and an ominously darkened sky that had made it seem much later in the day than it actually was. 

By the second crash he'd known what was going on—one serious thunderstorm was coming their way. He'd just never imagined it could be _this_ serious. 

That last flash of lightning had been bright enough that Dean could see the light through the heavy curtains. Immediately after, the air had seemed to crackle, the sound building and building until it had erupted into a loud bang that seemed to rumble across the roof overhead like a giant boulder rolling down a flight of stairs.

He'd jumped and Sammy had screamed, and Dean could only clutch his terrified little brother and hold him tight.

"Shh, Sammy, please," he said. "Don't cry. It's gonna be okay."

Dad wasn't due back for another hour, and Dean was under strict orders to stay inside with the door locked and the shades drawn. They were supposed to stay quiet and not draw attention to themselves, and that alone should have been reason enough to want Sammy to stop crying. 

Dean didn't care about that, though. He just wanted him to stop. He didn't like to see his brother so upset, so afraid that he was crying and shaking in his arms, clutching at Dean's shirt like he was trying to crawl inside and hide.

Another loud crash sounded over their heads and Sammy screamed again, crying so hard now Dean was afraid be was going to make himself sick.

Then, the lights went out. 

Dean felt his own eyes start to sting. His arms tightened around Sammy's back and he buried his face in Sammy's hair. Sammy's snot and tears were probably all over Dean's shirt now. It was only fair that Dean wipe some of his all over his brother.

He hushed and he shushed and he rocked back and forth, trying to soothe Sammy—and maybe himself a little bit, too—as the violence continued to rage outside.

The rain was pounding on the roof now, and the next crash of thunder shook the whole room around them. The realization that they weren't safe where they were, sitting on the floor between the two beds, seeped past his own fear.

This wasn't the first bad thunderstorm Dean had experienced—though it was definitely the worst, and not just because Dad wasn't there this time. Dean remembered what he'd been told.

"C'mon, Sammy. We gotta move to the bathroom."

Sammy just shook his head, wiping his face against Dean's shirt as he pressed closer.

Dean got his hands between them and pushed Sammy back enough to look at his face. He was a mess, his face red and smeared with tears and snot. Somehow, the sight of him seemed to calm Dean. 

He suddenly knew what he had to do.

"Yup. C'mon, Tiger," he coaxed, using the name Dad had started to call him. "You gotta help me, okay?"

He didn't wait for a response. He wrestled Sammy to his feet and started tugging him to the bathroom. It was the most _inside_ room they had.

"Don't gotta go!" Sammy cried, pulling on Dean's arm to keep from moving from the spot where he felt safe.

"Dad said it's the safest room." 

Dean wasn't sure he understood why, but Dad had said so and Dad knew everything. He grabbed the pillows off the beds, thrusting one into Sammy's hands.

"Here, hold onto this, okay."

Sammy obeyed, clutching it to his chest and burying his face in it.

"Eww, gross. That's your pillow now, Squirt. It's got your boogers all over it."

The room was dark with the loss of power, but not so dark that they couldn't see where they were going. He pulled Sammy along, holding on tightly when another loud crash had him wanting to run back to the bed.

"Nope, that's not safe, Sammy."

He tossed his pillow on the floor beneath the bathroom doorway and pushed Sammy down to sit on it. He squatted down in front of him and took both arms in his hands.

"Sammy, listen to me, okay. We're gonna build a fort, right here. And it's gonna be awesome and nothing is gonna get in. But, you gotta stay right here, okay?"

 Sammy shook his head and cried into his pillow.

"Hey, look at me. C'mon, Sammy. Look up."

Reluctantly, he raised his head. Dean made a face but gave him a smile. Despite how gross it was, Dean wiped his thumb over Sammy's face, cleaning off some of the slimy mess.

"I'm the big brother, right?" Sammy nodded, lower lip trembling, eyes wide and tear-filled. "And, that means I know stuff, right? Lots of stuff, like how to protect you and not let anything hurt you. Not even a big, nasty storm. Right?"

 Again, Sammy nodded, his breath hiccuping noisily.

"Right. Now, I need you to stay right here and not move. No matter what. Can you do that?"

Another loud crash shook the room and set Sammy off again. Dean gave him a little shake, careful, always so very careful, not to hurt him.

"Can you do that? Sit here and not move?"

"Wike st—statue?"

"Yes!" Dean answered excitedly. "Just like when we play statue. You're really good at that game. Better than me, even."

Sammy blinked, spilling a trail of tears down his cheeks. "Den you?"

"Yup. Dad even said so, remember? You're gonna play statue and I'm gonna build us an awesome fort, and when it's all done, we'll play a new game, okay?"

"M—matchy game?" Sammy asked, his voice muffled by the pillow. 

Dean would play whatever game Sammy wanted to play if it meant he would stay where Dean needed him to stay.

"Sure. You're really good at that game, too." 

Dean pushed himself to his feet and took a step back. Sammy started crying again, reaching out for him, but he didn't move from his seat. Dean's heart twisted in his chest, never okay with making his brother cry.

"I'm gonna count to twenty, Sammy. You know twenty, right? The fort will be all done by twenty and it's gonna be so awesome. You'll see."

He didn't wait for an answer. He just turned on his heels and ran over to the beds, counting loudly as he went so Sammy could hear him over the rain pounding against the roof. 

"One. Two. Three..."

He pulled the blankets off both beds and rolled them up in his arms. He raced back and dropped them on the floor near where Sammy sat. Sammy reached for him again, but Dean just counted louder.

"Five. Six....

He gathered up their duffle bags, rifling through the larger one until he found the flashlight and the battery-powered lantern. 

"Ten. Eleven. Twelve..."

Another flash lit behind the curtain followed by a boom of thunder so close the lightning hadn't even disappeared fully. Sammy scrambled to his feet and started to run to Dean.

"No!" Dean yelled. Sammy froze at the harsh command, and Dean resisted the urge to go to him. "You stay there! Like a statue, remember?" 

"Deeee!" he wailed, jumping up and down. 

"C’mon, Sammy. What number was I on? Thirteen? Twelve? What was it?" He tossed the lantern, flashlight, and duffle bag on the table. "I'm gonna have to start over if you can't remember."

There was only one chair near the table, but it was a heavy thing with wooden legs and ugly purple flowers on the cushion. He dragged it across the floor.

"One. Two..."

"No!" Sammy screamed. "Not one, two, fwee!"

"Okay, okay, Sammy! I remember." He pushed the chair into the bathroom, then turned and hugged Sammy to his side.

It took some effort, but he got Sammy sitting again with his back against the door jamb and his pillow crushed to his chest. "I'm sorry. I won't start over, okay. But, ya gotta stay here. Please, Sammy. Please."

Dean felt his throat tighten and his eyes sting. He wanted Dad to come through that door or the thunder to stop or...

No! He wasn't going to start crying like a baby. He was the Big Brother and that meant he couldn't be scared if Sammy was scared. He had to be brave so he could protect him. It was his job, after all. Dad said so.

_"Look after your brother."_

And he'd said he would.

He swiped his sleeve across his eyes. "It was eleven, twelve, right, Sammy?" he asked and Sammy nodded into his pillow. "Okay. Twenty, remember? That means I'm almost done."

He reached behind him and grabbed one of the blankets from the pile on the floor. "Here." He pushed down on the pillow a little bit. "Don't put your face in the pillow, okay? You can't breathe. Take this."

He wrapped the blanket around Sammy's shoulders tucking it close. His brother's little fingers curled around the edge in a tight fist.

"Eleven. Twelve..." Dean resumed counting as he pushed himself to his feet and stepped back. Sammy stayed in his cocoon and cried.

He raced back to the table, ducking when another crash of thunder shook the roof. The windows rattled in their panes. The storm seemed to be getting worse, if that was possible.

The table was heavy, with thick wooden legs and a wide top. Dad had sat Sammy on it this morning to tie his shoes, and Dean remembered him leaning against it while he'd talked to Uncle Bobby on the phone last night. 

It didn't budge when he tried to pull it so he circled to the other side and leaned all of his weight against it.

"Fifteen..." he grunted under its weight, but it finally moved popping out of the deep pockets its weight had pressed into the carpet.

"Sixteen..."

It slid, though not easily, across the floor until it was finally in front of the bathroom door. Dean's face was throbbing from the strain, his ears clicking when he swallowed.

"Seventeen..."

He was counting slower, in part because he was out of breath, but more because he was running out of numbers. He'd told Sammy twenty, though, and if he had to stretch the rules to keep his promise he would.

He grabbed the bags off the table and put them on the floor, then spread the other blanket over the top of the table.

"Eighteen..."

He crawled under the table and out the other side, sparing his brother a quick, "Almost done," as he passed him; and pulled the blanket over the back of the chair. He secured the edge through the horizontal bars in the back and let the rest hang down.

"Nineteen..."

He started to duck under the edge but stopped. Sammy's face was a slimy mess. He wet a face cloth in the sink and wrung it out so it wouldn't drip, then grabbed a towel and ducked into his makeshift 'tent'.

"Twenty!" he exclaimed.

Sammy blinked up at him out of the haven of his pillow and blanket. "Twenny?" he asked in a tiny voice so hopeful Dean wished he could have finished it in half the time.

"Yup. Wha'diya think? Pretty awesome, huh?"

Sammy looked around nervously. He seemed unsure, and panic began to swell in Dean's chest. If this didn't help ease some of Sammy's terror, Dean didn't know what else to try.

"Da boomies can't get us?" Sammy asked.

Before Dean could answer, thunder cracked sharply, but it didn't seem quite as loud as it had before. He wasn't sure if that meant the storm was moving away—he really, really hoped that was what it meant—or if the table and heavy blanket above them was merely muffling the sound.

Whatever it meant, the storm outside seemed less threatening from within their 'fort', and Dean could have cheered when Sammy didn't start screaming again.

"Nope, the thunder-boomers won't get us," Dean answered with relief. "C'mere."

He beckoned towards his brother then patted his lap and Sammy eased out from behind the pillow and blanket. As soon as he was in reach, Dean cleaned his face and hands with the warm facecloth—surprised when Sammy didn't fight him like he usually did—then dried them with the towel. 

"All better?" he asked.

Sammy shook his head. "Don't wike da boomies. Dere too woud wike a monster gonna step on me an' squish me dead."

Dean laughed. At three, his brother had the silliest imagination. No wonder he was always having nightmares. 

"That's not a monster, Sammy. I promise. It's just angels throwing their toys around."

That earned Dean a little giggle.

"God is bowling!"

And a bigger giggle that blew a little bubble out of Sammy's nose. Dean laughed at that, grabbing the discarded washcloth and wiping his brother's face before he could smear it all over his cheeks.

"So, our fort is all done, and it's wicked awesome and cool, right?" Sammy nodded. "Well, I guess we should go to sleep, huh?"

Sammy made a face. "Na-huh. Matchy game."

"That's right," Dean nodded and reached for their duffle bag. He unzipped the bag and fished through the clothes until he found the small box at the very bottom. From within, he drew out a deck of cards and a small zip-loc bag of red and black checkers. He dumped the checkers out onto the floor and stuffed the empty bag back into the box, then removed the elastic band from around the deck of cards and put it around his wrist so he wouldn’t lose it.

He made quick work of setting up the game, laying down sixteen cards in a four by four grid on the floor in front of him. He barely had the last card positioned when Sammy crawled over and settled himself between Dean’s legs. 

He leaned back against Dean’s chest and looked up at the underside of the table. “Will da boomers get Daddy?”

“Nah,” he answered quickly. He couldn’t even consider the possibility. “Daddy is really smart. He probably built a fort even more awesome than this one to wait for the storm to stop.” Thankfully, Sammy accepted his answer, and Dean quickly steered his attention back toward the game. “So, what are we matching?”

Sammy reached down and picked up one of the red checkers and placed in onto the ten of hearts in the top, left corner of the grid. He picked up another red checker and put it onto the 3 of diamonds two cards over and three cards down. 

“Colors it is.” Dean commented, not really surprised. Sammy always started with colors before moving onto something a little more challenging. 

The storm continued and although Sammy still jumped with every crash of thunder, he’d stopped crying. He filled the grid of cards with black and red checkers until he ran out of cards to cover then looked up at Dean expectantly.

“Good job,” Dean said and Sammy smiled. Dean carefully removed the checkers and dumped them into the pile by his knee then picked up the remaining cards in the deck. “Wanna try matching… numbers?” 

Sammy nodded. Dean laid down one of his cards. “Eight.” Sammy leaned forward to look at the card and then at the ones in his grid. There was an eight of diamonds and an eight of clubs in the grid—Dean noticed them right away but he wouldn’t point them out to his brother unless he asked. Sammy could be really stubborn when he wanted to do something himself.

Finally, Sammy put a black checker on the eight of clubs. “Good job, Sammy. You matched the color _and_ the number. Ready for another card?” Sammy nodded and Dean laid down another card.

They matched numbers for a spell and then the shapes, and Dean had no idea how long they played before the storm grew quieter outside their fort and Sammy grew heavier against his chest. When it grew too dark to see the cards, Dean flicked on the lantern so Sammy wouldn’t get scared. He needn’t have bothered. Sammy had fallen asleep.

Careful not to jostle him awake, Dean slid out from behind him and tipped him over onto his pillow. He drew the blanket over him then settled beside him, his back leaning against the doorjamb, and waited for Dad to come back.

 

~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~Wee!Chester~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~

 

 

John’s hands shook as he fit the room key into the lock above the doorknob. He’d already been running later than he’d expected when the storm had hit. Within minutes, the rain had reduced visibility and traction to dangerous levels, and he’d been forced to pull over to the side of the road under a bridge and wait it out, or risk hydroplaning into the deep ravine that ran parallel to the highway.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’s been in such a violent storm. The lightning had been spectacular, bright spears of white tearing jagged lines through the darkened sky, and under other circumstances he might have enjoyed the show. All he’d felt, though, was a sickening dread. 

He’d left his boys back at the motel, and as far as he could tell, the storm had come from that direction. Had it missed them? Were they okay? Sammy had never tolerated loud noises and he scared so easily. Would Dean be able to keep him calm? Would he remember what to do?

So many terrible scenarios had passed through his head while he’d waited for the storm to move on. He’d white-knuckled the steering wheel the whole way back, ignoring speed limits and traffic lights as much as he dared to make up for the lost time. 

His watch read 19:39—over two hours past when he’d told Dean to expect him back—and the road into town had been pitch dark, not a street light or store sign on in sight. Power had gone out at some point and had yet to be restored. Any hope he’d had that the motel had had generators had been thoroughly squashed when he’d pulled into the dark parking lot and parked in front of his dark room. Not a single light was on in the entire row.

The key finally slid into the lock and he turned the knob with one hand while he drew a flashlight from his pocket with his other. The first thing he noticed in the cone of light was the disheveled beds: sheets yanked to the floor, blankets and pillows gone. He swept the light to the left, closing the door behind him. His hand slipped to the gun tucked into the back of his jeans. 

The table and chair were gone, as were the duffel bags he’d left at the foot of his bed. Fear closed around his heart. He swept the flashlight to the right.

“What the hell?” he uttered. A large _structure_ of blankets and furniture blocked the bathroom door. He pointed his gun to the side as he took a few cautious steps towards the ‘fort’. “Dean?”

“Dad?” came the hesitant response. The relief was palpable in the whispered voice.

“Yeah.” John thumbed the safety switch on his gun and tucked it back into the waistband of his jeans. 

He dropped to his knee and drew up the edge of the blanket to peer in. Dean sat against the doorjamb with Sammy curled up between his legs. The toddler appeared to be sleeping, and something told him that had not been a simple feat.

“You two okay?” John asked, softly so as not to wake him just yet.

Dean nodded tightly. “Yes, sir.”

The tightness was in the boy’s eyes, too. John gave him a reassuring smile. “Ready to come on outta there?” 

Dean frowned, looking down at Sammy. John knew the look; Dean got it sometimes when he wasn’t ready to hand back responsibility for his brother. It hurt, to say the least, that Dean didn’t trust John to take care of his brother as well as he could, and the guilt ate away at him that he’d created that fear. He only hoped that one day, his boys would understand. It was never what he’d wanted for any of them, but it was the hand they’d been dealt and he’d had to make the best of it.

He let the edge of the blanket drop and worked his way around to the side, shaking his head as he went. Dean’s cleverness and ingenuity never ceased to amaze him. He folded the edge of the blanket over the top of the table, then squatted down on his heels.

“It’s okay, Dean,” he said. “We should probably wake him up to feed him, huh?” 

“S’pose,” Dean answered. 

John reached over and carefully extracted Sammy from the tangle of blankets between and around Dean’s legs. The toddler stirred, whimpering quietly, and tightened his arms around Dean’s leg. 

Dean soothed him with a hand through his hair. “Hey, Sammy. Dad’s home.”

Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking sleepily. “Daddy?”

“Hey, Tiger.”

The next thing John knew, he had a handful of crying Sammy clinging to his neck like a noose. He’d barely had time to shift his weight to keep from falling over backwards. He held him tight and rose to his feet while Sammy wailed into his neck.

“Da boomies were weewy woud an’ I was scared…”

“Shhh… It’s okay, now, Tiger,” John said, rubbing Sammy’s heaving back and bouncing him gently.

“Dee buiwt a weawy awesome fort so da boomies no get me…”

“That was a pretty awesome fort, huh?” He looked over his shoulder as Dean slowly crawled out from under the table. The seven-year-old wrapped his arms around his stomach like he was cold. 

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he said into the floor. His arms tightened around his middle. “He was so sc—scared and he… he wouldn’t stop crying…”

John dropped to one knee in front of his older son, and drew him in close. “You did really good, Sport,” he said. Dean’s body started to shake with silent sobs, and John hugged both boys so tightly he was afraid he might crush them. “I knew I could count on you.”

 

_fini_


End file.
